"It's never-ending," Olive slips in between orders, bumping shoulders with his partner. They can't acknowledge the impact anymore.

Rodi doesn’t add anything. His eyes seem to lose themselves between the bar tools, the piling glassware, the buttons on the card reader. Although his sight still holds, Olive's also past his peak — his hands are getting untied from their lunar puppet strings, and his fingers land on the tools in odd ways. Sunrise's just around the corner.

Going back to his bar mat, he finishes a chain of Mojitos, which rips the last sorry leaves off his potted mint. At the start of the night, these highball glasses had lush bouquets of mint hugging their straws. Now, they're lucky if they have a complete sprig, bruised and old.

Another bump into Rodi. "Garnishes 86'd. We're running dry on the rail bottles, we've emptied a bunch other, I have no clue what we've still got anymore." The relentless focus he has been holding for hours makes his tone more irritated. "I keep having to tell people we don't have this or that."

Rodi finally takes notice, and his hand nudges Olive a whisper away from the counter. "Get crafty, 'cause these bitches aren't leaving 'til they're sleepwalking. Tell them what we have , and empty it out."

"I've made an educated guess. This isn't a top shelf crowd, going off my last hour's orders. Let's just call it. They won't want to drink on double the price."

The comment doesn't seem to reach Rodi, he's instead stepping back some more to grasp the bigger picture. His index finger points at what's left on the shelves, in the fridges, on the rails, while whispering a count for himself. It needs a recount for it to be correct.

"Turn the music down for me," he then instructs. He clears part of their working area until Olive finds the phone in its nest of cables.

A loud whistle shrills from between Rodi's beak and his two fingers. All eyes on him.

"Last call! You heard me! Last call!"

It's time. While he's still holding the phone, Olive switches the hieroglyph playlist to their other one, titled Get out . Twenty minute ambientals. Sleepytime tunes. After half an hour's worth of songs, it's supposed to become unbearably boring.

Their relief is short-lived, however. Neither warning nor music has any effect on the Night Owls. In fact, the last call might've made it worse. Just one more and we're out , they all say in their heads. They congeal around the bar unlike before.

Rodi keeps his lips pursed upon sensing Olive's final look, one that someone would give before walking the plank. It can't be shrugged off. Even a pull on his white tie's knot isn't loosening his jaw. Gone is that half-raised smirk, Rodi's ego is about to float away, waving a handkerchief atop a drifting raft.

"If there's a night to sellout, it's this," he declares as he approaches the frontline. Rodi wipes his palms on his rag, tossing it in the counter's depths. It's not the moment for handkerchief goodbyes.

The queue doubles as they regroup. It's indifferent to Olive's desire, or lack thereof, to continue. He bitterly nabs his shakers with a swinging throw of his hand.

Rodi takes a sharp inhale, eyes shut to rest whatever's been rattled in him. He curbs the crowd, in a split-second decision.

"Shots and bottles only. No more mixed drinks, guys. We're way past closing."

Just as Olive was rinsing his tins and strainers, those sublime words bring a bow to his head. He drops them in the sink with a rattle, and uses its basin as a rest for his towering arms.

"I'll take this. Go take a break," Rodi suggests in passing, noticing the gesture in the corner of his vision.

Olive raises his head, pushing the tufts out of his right eye. "I'm sticking. Let's get it over with."

For a second, Rodi's face relaxes enough for a smile. Yet, it soon returns to its unamused rest, an unintentionally judgemental tilt of his brows and mouth. Here to serve, forever and always.

The factory conveyor belts restart. Dwarf glasses get lined in multiples of four. Their edges kiss, such that when the speed pourer passes above them in a straight line, no drop ends wasted. At least in theory. The bartenders haven't got the motion fully figured out yet. Olive can't do a fair split between the shots, so he backtracks most of his pours. Rodi doesn't care anymore, does a full tilt of the bottle, has his arm gain altitude, and lets the damn thing drip around as it wants. If it ends in a glass, it's a perk.

The rail bottles finally vanish in five rounds. The speed pourers fly off the empty bottles, and get placed in a container between the two, for use with the other bottles as needed. It's only the shelves left, which hold a more esoteric collection of spirits and liqueurs. Olive turns away some customers with this news, and wishes them a safe trip home. On Rodi's side however, a few brave souls hang for what's left.

While Olive does a few turns of his wrist, before a nasty strain takes hold, his hearing alerts him of the clinking coming from behind. Rodi's on the very tips of his tiptoes, struggling to reach the upper shelf. Before his partner lends a hand, he claws the bottle off it, catching it with great satisfaction. He sticks his tongue out at the taller inkling. He's now cradling a caramel tinted rum, the import seal on it unbroken. He manages to mystify a group of six into buying a neat glass of it each, finally making use of this bottle that never got anywhere. He's typing in a crass guesswork of a price, triple of what's usual for this order, though the customer doesn't mind. The customer forgets what numbers mean when they're having a good time.

Olive needs to blink twice after peeking at the POS screen. "...How?"

Rodi takes his eyes off the drinks to wink back. Some drops make their way inside the bar mat, probably adding up to a few thousand G. "Marketing. Watch this."

He then raises his voice, such that the socialites hear him. "I'm sure you'll like this. It's from a ten year old reserve, aged in the finest barrels, and bottled at cask-strength. The barrels used to house brandy, so it imparts a pretty unique flavour, I'd say. The brand also boasts a proprietary distillation process, which is a blend of traditional and modern processes. It's probably the most special thing I've poured tonight. Enjoy!"

Half of that sounded bullshit, Olive's unnaturally straight face struggles to mask his doubt. A snort blows his cover. He gets a soft elbow to his side.

In all honesty, Rodi could never be bothered with such details. He couldn't care less if his alcohol was an angel's tears or some rained-on ashtray muck filtered through a sock. He judges only by the sip. If confronted, he would agree that he parroted some random sales pitch he heard, probably used for a different bottle. The sale was a success, regardless. He's gently reminding Olive to place the bottle back on its spot.

There's two fat measures left in it, Olive observes. They could one day discover if there's more to this spirit than marketing pitches. What sort of day will that be? What does a day mean, anyway? Twenty four hours. Eight spent sleeping, eight spent working, eight spent as you wish. That's not their reality. Time lost its meaning. There is a cold consolation in knowing some hours can vanish in a blink, especially when it's just bottle caps and straight pours. Sadly, mindless time is still spent time, tuned out and dragged on, pulling behind like a dead weight when the party has overrun its course.

...Where were they, now? It's closing time, it better be.

When the stragglers are too boozed to get the message, Rodi props a folded piece of paper upright. BAR CLOSED , a marker’s felt tip inscribed his spiky lettering. The sign has a really low budget feel, with the lined paper and all. It's the first time they had to put up something like this, in his defense. The usual clientele had a dram of decency and was out soon after the last call.

Olive takes some backwards steps towards the rear counter, landing it buttocks-first. He sends his head back, dragging his hands across his face, muffling a groan bordering delusion. His shoulder gives another spark, which rolls through his entire nervous system. His hand goes back to it, kneading the little comfort it's still able to give.

On the other side, Rodi's shepherding. "We're shutting down in five, make your way out now, please. ...Sorry. ...I said sorry . We're locking for set-down, please leave now." Some are more receptive than others.

To make it more obvious, he takes it to the wall switches in the storage. The counter's violet lightning dims, the shelving's yellow light strips fade, leaving their station in a relatively private darkness. A row of stock spotlights come to life on the ceiling, creating a white illumination in the central area that's void of personality.

Rodi comes back from the storage room with a bottle, donning a scratched-off label. It's for their own consumption, and it shows signs of being used in previous closing hours.

"Fuck it. I've done my duty."

He halfheartedly rinses two rocks glasses and tosses an ice cube in each. The two inch cubes are melted down, gone are their perfect square angles from hours ago. The cork sound is satisfying as always. He pours the mystery spirit in each glass, and slides one closer to Olive. Olive's been eyeing this entire ritual since its start, still preoccupied by his shoulder.

"Is it flaring up?" Rodi furrows his brow at the shoulder.

"Yeah. It's the same one I knocked last year. It does this whenever it's a long shift. And this one's..."

"...Yeah."

Rodi reaches for his glass, though quickly decides against it, as if something's amiss. He dives through the glassware under the counter for the elusive ashtray, then places it between him and Olive.

"Should I take the no smoking sign down?" Olive jabs.

"My house, my rules," Rodi says through the cigarette that's already between his lips, unlit. He summoned the pack out of thin air. "We'll make it an exception. But you, sir, gotta keep from chain-smoking inside."

From his unwavering look right under his eyelids, and the way he bobs the pack repeatedly in front of Olive, it's clear how Rodi's pushing for the treat. Poor man's decadence: Mako-Mart discount spirits and smoking like it's postcoital. After staring at a loose cigarette for a minute, Olive sighs and grabs it, his hand unable to grip anything until his second try. He goes fishing for the lighter in his apron, which is barely hanging on his hips. He passes it to Rodi, who throws it back after lighting his.

They exhale so hard in unison that a haze builds up in the air. The adrenaline fades, the weight they press on the floor captures a significant part of their focus. The heaviness pairs well with the muscle fatigue, like sweet and savory do.

Rodi uses his left arm as a rest, holding both his cigarette and glass in his right hand. He's triple tasking it while scratching an itch at the corner of his mask, oblivious to the smoke about to enter his eyes.

"You know, I had a feeling Night Owls would beat the Early Birds just by the numbers on the streets. Think about it. This whole shift would've been very different if it wasn't so skewed. Those were crazy percentages."

"Mm," Olive rolls his head on his shoulder, shifting his attention to his partner. The motion's familiar, it's the same when he rolls on his pillow. "I had to lower my hopes for an early stop."

Rodi lets his smile widen. "From that answer, I guess we would've been on different sides if we joined in?"

"The only side I care about now is mine, in bed, waiting for me at home," Olive gives more of his weight to the back counter, his tentacles nearly touching the shelves.

Rodi turns his smile to the floor, checking the tip of his roughed up low tops. "Yeah. No sweat. We'll set down properly tomorrow."

He turns to check the state of their bar. It's been turned upside down, nothing's at its initial place anymore. Piles of glassware wait in a sink that's about to overflow. The takeaway containers are missing their prepped ingredients. There's random peels and failed citrus wheels scattered across the lower counter. A dust bunny shivers where their bottles used to sit. As people trickle out, they struggle to find space on the counter for their empty glasses.

It'll be a problem for the next time they wake. Olive lets out the staleness in his held breaths, his knackered shoulder lowers as he brings the glass to his lips. It goes down with a caress that smooths out the smoke's roughness in his throat. He would've called this spirit worthless, a stinking punishment, if not for the situation at hand. It becomes honey after nights like these.

"You did great," Rodi adds while still eyeing the exiting crowd. They're looking for their personal weapons.

"Ah," he murmurs against the glass, raspier than he'd like. "You pulled most of the weight."

"C'mon, darling. Do you think I'd handle these numbers alone?" he can still count about thirty purple wristbands, fluorescing from Olive's grow lights. "There's no reason to keep underselling yourself. If you ask me, I'd say you're holding your own."

Olive nearly smiles, though he's too tattered to take it as a win. He downs his glass, letting the sweating ice cube fall on his nose, then drops the cigarette stub over it.

"Okay. I guess I held up better than I expected."

They hang for a moment void of any tasks or thoughts. At last, doing nothing is something that the world allows. Every time Olive shuts his eyes, there's a chance he'll end up holding them closed in a wakeful slumber. At his left hand, Rodi keeps loosely tracking every customer on their way out. He blinks in rapid-fire bursts, in an attempt to focus his dry eyes. They refocus on someone specific.

Beyond the forest of dirty glassware, a lone soul can be spotted at the end of the bar. She's been holding herself up on her elbows for a while, alternating between checking the surroundings, her phone, and her fingernails. A lavender anemone, with tendrils golden tipped, and round thin framed glasses that cover half her face yawns her lower jaw away. Rodi could notice her only after the majority of the Night Owls called their retreat. He goes up to her, hand still holding his revival elixir on the rocks.

"You didn't say anything about coming 'round here," he chirps.

She lifts her head from her palms, greeting with a partway smile. "Yeah, well, I thought the place was still dead. I heard a ruckus from here on my way back, imagine my shock."

"Felt like forever, huh?" Rodi takes some of the glasses between them, and leaves them under the counter for later. He drops one elbow in the newly formed space. "How are you, Lynda?"

"The usual," she raises her glass half-heartedly, a sip's worth of a Margarita with most of the salt rim licked off. "Where's your boss?"

"She's got her own place to deal with. And I've got mine," Rodi copies that tiny glass raise.

"Okay, I'm missing something here. Is she not working here anymore?"

"Yes and no. She's back-seating me," he does two air quotes. "But she pretty much left me in charge."

Lynda's lips curl. "You? Ha! Is she nuts?"

Rodi lets the backhanded comment slide. "Anyway, welcome to our domain, please appreciate the artistic liberties and shit," his upturned hand does an arch to present it, in all of its messy glory. Another empty glass gets placed on the bar.

"Yeah, I could tell it wasn't Beryl's hand here. She'd call any plant upkeep a waste of prep time," the smirk settles on her face, as she surveys the surroundings.

"We don't mind. Smell the roses, y'know. It's not all about working your ass off in volume 'tending, I keep telling her! And guess what she does to me when I'm on the clock at her new place," he leaves his glass on the counter to whip his hand repeatedly with the other, biting his lip devilishly.

"Oh my," she laughs against the salt rim. "Yeah, you're doing some craft stuff in here, for sure. Not her comfort zone."

"Exactly. That's where we take the wheel. Olive's the real genius behind our menu," he takes a step to uncover him from deep behind the bar, still tending his injury.

His ears flutter at the mention of his name, and his neck cranes over to Rodi's direction. The pomegranate and lavender gazes invite him to come closer, and see what it's all about.

Rodi firestarts the introductions for the two. "I'm sharing ownership with Olive, my partner," he lets himself bask in the feeling of that word. "As a bit of background, Lynda and I were the regulars around the area. She's seen my greatest hits, my best nights out."

"Like hell I did! Remember the 8 hour non-stop crawls? Who else was there to hold your tentacles out of the bowl? We used to go hard," she pumps her fist, then remembers there's an introduction happening. "Nice to meet you, by the way," her head tilts, making her glasses slide down her face.

"Likewise," Olive smiles back, masking the lingering strains.

"Hm, you're familiar. I think I saw you around campus," she pushes her glasses' legs back to the roots of her tendrils. "U of I, am I right?"

"Second year Botany," he nods back.

"Nice. Third year Electrical, so a way away from your department. It was probably around the walkways, who knows."

"Right, right," the nods haven't stopped. "People say they can see me from a mile away, so it might be that. Cool. I don't think I know anyone in your department yet. How are the final exams treating you?"

"Oh, let's not talk about that," she hides her lips behind the salt rim. "I've got one more, then I'm out, forever."

"We've also got one left for the year. I still have to revise, so it's not looking too cheery for me either," his arms cross awkwardly, as his giggle fills the air.

"Well, now that you say it, I could take some more time tomorrow to revise," a finger lands on the corner of her mouth.

Rodi juts his forearms further onto the counter. "Yeah, stick your nose in those textbooks, you nerd. Stop looking for your next smash."

"Hell no, you're the last person to lecture me about this," she pushes his forearms back where they were.

Rodi straightens up, and grabs his glass in his left hand to wave it around. "You'd learn a lot from me. Watch. Stay in school. Get enough sleep. Don't text him back if you're not bent out of shape the next morning."

"That one's garbage," Lynda adds in-between.

"Most importantly, you don't need a hottie. That's a hindrance. You need something even better, like your own little fishie."

There's no clownfish circling around Lynda's tendrils, now that Rodi mentions it. Olive notices her grip tightening at the stem of her glass.

"How's that hunt looking?" he prods.

"Rodi, dear, that's none of your business," she forces her smirk so hard, that her eye gives a twitch.

"Take it all as friendly advice, Linds. I see your fit, it's late as hell, and yet, you're still in the area. I've seen this before. You've been looking a loooong time," Rodi's torso tilts to his right, having it lean harder on the forearm.

"Just 'cause you hit the jackpot," she involuntarily pushes the Margarita glass towards Olive, "doesn't mean you get to make fun of those still in the game."

"You're missing the point. And, I've said before, I think a symbiote is the starting step."

Lynda tilts back on her stool. "Pff. What's a fish gotta do with it?"

"Oh, honey, it's pretty obvious. Anyone can see you're missing a guy here," he points at his side-swept tentacles, "so you're a walking red flag. That's why you can't hook anything."

By how quickly her frown fell behind her glasses, this was a tease too far. The gap between Olive's brows wrinkles in his look back to Rodi, though Rodi does an innocuous shrug upon this silent questioning.

Lynda's coral lips stay glued as she switches her attention to her phone, a dialing tone sounding at each tap. She raises it to the side of her head.

"On Ten Eelskin Street. ...One minute? Perfect."

She puts the phone into a concealed pocket in her playsuit, and pulls a leg away from the bar stool until her boot touches the ground.

"My taxi's here. See you next week, boys."

"Good night," Olive waves back, a shy and subdued motion. It makes her smile for a second, at least.

The entrance opens, and a gentle warmth overflows inside. Lynda vanishes in this morning glow. Heaven's gate closes behind her. Around the unsealed edges of the door, some of those bright orange tones still trickle past.

A last collective sigh. Rodi downs his glass, then unlocks the till. After a cursory count, which brings some ink back in his cheeks, he has to divide the cash between Olive, his wallet, and the entire capacity of his four pockets. This is another first.

He locks the till for the night, then starts clawing at the trash pileup, after pulling the bin liner out of its nook. He targets the areas where trash accumulated in thicker clusters. Olive makes himself useful by loading the dishwasher, the first load of many.

"Shut me up after a ten hour shift next time," Rodi breaks the silence between the liner's rustling and clashing bottles.

Olive peeks his head from under the counter. "Uh, I wasn't there with you guys. My mind's been long gone. What was the big deal?"

"It's a long story. We bumped many times, then buddied up whenever we were out on the prowl. Look after me, look after you sorta deal," Rodi gestures the reciprocity. "But the longer she keeps at it, the more dissatisfied I see her becoming." He ties the filled bin liner, and grunts as he raises it over his shoulder. "And I've been there. What she's looking for, she won't find in clubs and bars."

"That's a shame. ...I guess five in the morning isn't prime advice time."

"Figures. Can you lock the door behind you?"

"Yeah, give me a few minutes to wrap up."

As his partner drags double his body weight up the stairs, Olive discovers a new type of discomfort. There's a constant tone in between his ears, high pitched and impossible to push behind. It makes the little set-down he's attempting unbearable. Even the sound of glasses clinking together became too grating on his ears. The state of disarray adds to the discomfort. A headache creeps its way back in. He's had enough with the glassware.

Olive takes his retreat from the bad vibrations to the lounge, clutching a fresh bin liner, a broom and a pan. The lounge is more of an affectionate moniker for the area, it's two rescued couches facing each other, a discount coffee table separating them, and a dozen houseplant purchases that couldn't find their place elsewhere. He collects the scattered napkins and straws, and whatever little plastics and lint flew from the customer's pockets. There's some sticky-wet spots around the table, requiring a serious mopping. He doesn't want to know if the upholstery is also soaked. Olive drops the broom and pan, calling it quits halfway through his bin bag.

This was a lousy job of a clean-up, though it's half the burden gone from the day. The closing inventory is thankfully child's play, he can count the bottles on his fingers. He updates the records over the POS, wiping the scratchy sand out of his tear ducts. Lastly, he flicks the lights off, letting the natural stream of light flow down the basement's stairs and provide its guidance.

Mimosa's door locks at five in the morning.

A gear shifts inside him, while he climbs back to the street level. There's a featherweight lift in the air, a subtle tranquility as everything is, at last, quiet. Periwinkle clouds and fuzzy peach gradients make a dreamy backdrop for the jet trails. Sleepy curtained windows and early lightbulb flickers dot the apartments and high rises. The city blurs the borders between rest and wake. Far beyond Inkopolis Bay, a splash of bright orange encircles the sun, which will dissolve in a hot white glow at noon. Such a difficult night can only bring a beautiful day.

An engine and its exhaust pipe rumble ahead. A honeyed voice rises over it. "Come on, it's getting late. ...Early. You get me."

Olive snaps out the trance to see Rodi already up his parked bike, keys on ignition. He straddles the fuchsia sport-model steed, his hands resting on the handle's black rubber, ready to turn it on the next avenue.

Each step takes him closer to his side of the bed. Olive's right leg miraculously makes it over the saddle. His hands encircle Rodi's midriff, and a radiating warmth emerges from beneath the fabric. The black shirt is stiffened and slick with dried simple syrup. Olive hasn't checked his own clothes. He's purposefully avoiding looking at it in daylight, which is unforgiving on the night's captured spillage. At least the worst staining is hidden while they're on the road, and his chest is lining the whole of Rodi's back.

The wheels roll steadily off the sidewalk's border. Their feet hover as they pick up the speed, turning on a street that widens the lanes, then another that splits from two lanes into four. The transportation web quickly tangles in crossings, suspended roads and railways.

South-East Inkopolis branches around this important artery, connecting it to the expressways converging to Inkopolis Plaza, the ones circling the major Eastern and Western districts, and beyond. Their usual commute has them up on the convenient expressway, exiting it just before Blackbelly Bridge. Past it, their flat is a sneeze away.

About 500 metres into the avenue, they come up to the first signs of congestion. It's something they expected, they're catching up to the early commuters. As Rodi threads themselves between the cars, they spot a concerning amount of hazard lights left on. On a second check, the entire road's blocked, barricaded by men at work and the police.

"What the hell is this?" Rodi pulls the steering sharply, though keeps from U-turning unless he's sure there's no other way ahead.

A large sign posted in the middle lanes is informing them of the required detour, together with the Metropolitan Council's profound apologies. A bowing blue figure, with his yellow hard hat in his hand, decorates the sign's right side.

"This is a joke," his wrist revs up the engine, in frustration. "They closed the expressway too. Who thought this was a good idea?"

"Maybe they're still setting down from last night," Olive peeks his head from behind. Inkopolis Tower spears between the high rises. Oddly, it’s still lit up. Their route would've passed right behind it. "There's another way through the ring road, right?"

"Yeah. Fantastic! Are you excited for the shipyards and warehouses, baby?"

"Woo hoo," in the most apathetic voice. Olive presses his forehead on Rodi's back tentacles.

"Don't fall asleep on me, now."

It's hard to doze off, especially when nothing's according to their routine.

As they reach the city's coastal ring, they're met with commuters, delivery men, and other cursed souls seeking their long way back home. It's a snail's pace, though it's not a blockade. It's welcome nevertheless, as it allows them to readjust to waking life's sensible rhythms.

The landscape turns industrial the further they stray from the centre. The air turns slightly salty and metallic. Walleye Warehouse's incessant ventilation whirr makes it through the traffic noise. On the wharf's opposite arm, Olive can spot some activity in Port Mackerel, of the less industrious variety. By the distinct purple shirts, it's some battlers yet to return their Splatfest gear, having what could be their last match for the day. Once the sunrise blends into the azure, they'll have to get out of the way of the moving cargo.

Far into the distance, in spite of the misty horizon, a chunk of land makes its appearance. It's often too foggy to see further at sea, though on clear days, Bluefin Island shows up to greet the capital. It is deep green from overgrowth, and muddy brown to brick red from the rusting Depot, its largest structure. Grey abandoned residential buildings pepper the overgrowth around the coal mine.

For more than fifty years, this place had been largely ignored. It seems that whenever a big celebration occurred in Inkopolis, the island ordered its tallest trees to wave in the wind, hoping that someone would finally notice it. And it worked. Ferries have been running between the Bay and Bluefin since last year. Decked-out inklings board these ferries, wishing to make the rugged terrain their own battlefield. However, Olive wants to believe that this island can offer more than well-positioned E-Litre perches.

The marine winds carry a secret. They whisper how Bluefin Island wants to tell a story. Bluefin shouts it in every block of concrete that's got ferns and moss cracking out of it. It wants to speak of what was there before a bustling industrial city. There wasn't anyone to listen, neither during or after its inhabitation. People had their own flighty matters, they moved on too fast, there were fresh opportunities awaiting across the shore. It's what people have always done throughout history. However, the story continues to be told, while there's no one around to hear it. Until then, the island will hide away in its characteristic mist. The winds leave more salt on the steel beams.

Time runs in reverse in such spaces. Other places have it running on fast-forward, and the capital is the greatest offender. Before they get on Blackbelly Bridge, they pass the scaffolding and cranes combing the Old Square's sky. The Metropolitan Council is full-steam on finalising their latest plan: a reimagined commercial and social district for the city, a drop of the unfashionable Old prefix. The renewed Inkopolis Square is estimated to finish next year, and every day it looks like a different site. Just like Bluefin however, the square's heritage still bellows. The hundred years old Deca Tower holds its height with little issue, yet the facade betrays its age. It seems that most of the original walls will be hidden behind billboards, to make it more palatable to the modern eye. This beacon of journalism is forced to shoulder Squidforce's logo.

The waves keep rolling without the moon as their witness.